


can't cover it up

by prouvairing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cryingjolras, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parent Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a raw pain in Enjolras’ chest, stretching his ribcage. Something that he cannot name, but tastes a little like grief and a little like shame, <i>and it has nothing to do with Grantaire at all.</i><br/>And yet, it is on Grantaire that it decides to catch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't cover it up

**Author's Note:**

> Well the title is from I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me (basically fuck you FOB couldn't you have mercy on us???) because it always makes me think of Enjolras and his strained relationship with his parents  
> ... And hey I just like to make him cry. Sorry.
> 
> EDIT: I fucked up and forgot to give my HUGE THANKS TO Beth besanii, who is an actual angel and was invaluable in beta-ing this fic. All the hugs to my smutty partner in crime (although this isn't very smutty at all whoops) <3

“Shut up, Grantaire, just - _SHUT UP_!”

The room falls silent. There’s only the far-off sound of the café’s customers beyond the door, Enjolras’ heavy breathing, and the blood pumping in his ears. Everything is still, even Grantaire, caught with his mouth half-open.

His eyes are so, so blue, wide in shock, trained on Enjolras. He has seen hurt flash on Grantaire’s face before, soon shuttered behind a sneer. He has hated himself for it before. Today, Enjolras finds nothing but undiluted surprise there. He hates himself for a whole different reason.

There is a raw pain in Enjolras’ chest, stretching his ribcage. Something that he cannot name, but tastes a little like grief and a little like shame, _and it has nothing to do with Grantaire at all_.

And yet, it is on Grantaire that it decides to catch.

It is with dawning horror that he realizes that tears are blurring the sight of Grantaire’s blue, blue eyes. Eyes that widen, just as horrified, when he realizes Enjolras is doing his best not to cry.

Grantaire thinks it’s his fault.

Enjolras doesn’t have the strength, or the heart, or the decency to correct him. Like the selfish bastard he is – _knows he is_ – he turns around and storms out.

He pretends not to hear Grantaire’s voice call out his name.

 

*

Two lines of text, cold and impersonal:

 

_Your mother didn’t make it. Funeral’s on Friday._

_I do not think any of us would begrudge your absence._

Signed, _C. W. Enjolras._ He hadn’t expected any more, or less, from his father.

 _I do not think any of us would begrudge your absence_.

More like, _don’t bother showing up._

And it’s okay, it’s fine. Enjolras hadn’t wanted to go to the fucking funeral _anyways_.

There’s a memory, somewhere, of his mother’s mouth twisted the wrong way, and the disappointment in her eyes. The little, irritated sigh. “Are you _determined_ to embarrass your father?” she had said.

Of course, it’s that memory that decides to haunt him, as he slumps against the wall in the bathroom, and lets his shoulders shake with barely-suppressed sobs.

It isn’t his mother’s bigotry, or fucked up morals, or her money built on the blood and exploitation of others. It isn’t her selfishness, her hypocrisy, no… it’s that one moment when he poured his heart out to her and she cocked her head and wrinkled her nose as if in front of something foul.

He doesn’t know why he’d thought coming out to her would be any different.

He hates it all. The painful lump in his throat melting slowly with his tears, and the way his nose tingles and runs, and the warmth in his eyelids, and the way his hands tremble.

And he hates (hated) _her_ most of all.

The door bursts open and Enjolras startles like a deer caught in headlights.

The sound Grantaire makes when he sees him, takes in Enjolras’ red, puffy eyes and his shiny cheeks, is a sort of pained, half-choked whine.

“Enjolras,” he pleads. “I’m a fucking idiot, I shouldn’t have said – I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry. Please, _please_ don’t cry.”

Enjolras tries to hold back his sobs, but only manages to let out a series of breathless gasps in their place.

“S-shut up,” he repeats, and sees Grantaire flinch. Fucking great. He can never say the right thing, can he?  “It’s not you,” he says, finally, and sees Grantaire’s brows furrow in confusion.

Grantaire’s hands come to hover over Enjolras’ shoulders. He can feel the heat of them, inches from his skin. There’s a question in his eyes, and Enjolras sniffles and nods. Grantaire’s fingers brush his shoulders and squeeze and he looks at Enjolras, soft, searching.

“What is it?” he asks, and Enjolras opens his mouth to tell. He does.

He can’t. Can’t say the words.

_My mother is dead._

He just pulls out his phone with shaking fingers and opens his father’s email – those two spidery, dry lines. He holds it up for Grantaire to see.

He can’t look at Grantaire’s face as he reads. Could probably never bear the pity he’d see in it.

It’s bad enough to hear the sadness in his voice when he sighs, “ _Oh, Enj_.”

Grantaire’s hands tighten, before rubbing his arms up and down, slow and soothing. Enjolras still isn’t looking, _cannot_ , but he also cannot think of one good reason why he shouldn’t fall forward against Grantaire’s chest.

So he does.

He can smell faint cigarette smoke and fabric softener. His shoulders still heave with silent sobs under Grantaire’s hands, as the cynic mutters soft nonsense like “Hush, it’s alright, I got you,” and it’s _so fucking stupid_ because he doesn’t even know why he’s crying at all.

“I hated her,” he hisses low, against Grantaire’s shirt. “I hated her so much. Couldn’t even – couldn’t even _talk_ to her without shouting, couldn’t look at her. I don’t know why I’m – I shouldn’t – ”

And damn, he’s useless with words today. Enjolras, who is known to use words as weapons, sharp and deadly, is a stuttering mess.

Shame and guilt, again.

_I shouldn’t be mourning her._

“Hey, hey,” Grantaire whispers, pulling him closer. It is without a thought that Enjolras’ arms wind around his waist.

His ear against Grantaire’s chest, hearing the slow _thump-thump_ of his heart. Rough hands against his back, rubbing circles. Warm breath fanning his ear, upsetting his curls.

“Whatever it is that you’re feeling,” Grantaire tells him. “It’s valid. Whatever it is, you’re allowed to feel it, love.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the absolution that does it, or the way his chest finally bursts with grief – with gentler memories, of when he was a kid and _didn’t know, not yet_ , when he still hadn’t knocked his parents off their carefully crafted pedestals. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t know why Grantaire is calling him _love_ , and the strange surprise of finding that he doesn’t mind it at all.

Grantaire doesn’t let him go. He keeps whispering soothing nothings in Enjolras’ ear ( _calling him love_ ) and swaying him gently, from side to side. Enjolras cries, and tries not to be ashamed.

He thinks he hears the door slide open at some point, but his eyes are screwed shut, so he may have imagined it

They stay like that, locked together in the Musain’s bathroom, for a long time.


End file.
